A Wayfarer in China Impressions of a Trip Across West China and Mongolia by Elizabeth Kendall

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Title: A Wayfarer in China
Impressions of a trip across West China and Mongolia

Author: Elizabeth Kendall

Release Date: December 10, 2008 [EBook #27481]

Language: English

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A WAYFARER IN CHINA

THE LITTLE "FU T'OU" (CARAVAN HEADMAN)

THE LITTLE "FU T'OU" (CARAVAN HEADMAN)

A WAYFARER IN CHINA

IMPRESSIONS OF A TRIP

ACROSS WEST CHINA AND MONGOLIA

By ELIZABETH KENDALL

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

A

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY ELIZABETH KENDALL

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Published February 1913

TO

THE HAPPY MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

THE ONE WHO

ALWAYS UNDERSTOOD

PREFACE

WORD of explanation may help to an understanding of this record of a brief journey in China, in 1911, in the last
quiet months before the revolution.

No one who has ever known the joy of hunting impressions of strange peoples and strange lands in the out-of-the-way
corners of the world can ever feel quite free again, for he hears always a compelling voice that "calls him night and day"
to go forth on the chase once more. Years ago, for a beginning, I pursued impressions and experiences in the Far West
on the frontier,—there was a frontier then. And since that time, whenever chance has offered, that has been my holiday
pastime, among the Kentucky mountains, in the Taurus, in Montenegro, in India. Everywhere there is interest, for
everywhere there is human nature, but whoever has once come under the spell of the Orient knows that henceforth
there is no choice; footloose, he must always turn eastwards.

But really to see the East one must shun the half-Europeanized town and the treaty port, must leave behind the comforts
of hotel and railway, and be ready to accept the rough and the smooth of unbeaten trails. But the compensations are
many: changing scenes, long days out of doors, freedom from the bondage of conventional life, and above all, the
fascination of living among peoples of primitive simplicity and yet of a civilization so ancient that it makes all that is oldest
in the West seem raw and crude and unfinished. So when two years ago my feet sought again the "open road," it was
towards the East that I naturally turned, and this time it was China that called me. I did not go in pursuit of any
information in particular, but just to get for myself an impression of the country and the people. My idea of the Chinese
had been derived, like that of most Americans, from books and chance observation of the handful of Kwangtung men
who are earning their living among us by washing our clothes. Silent, inscrutable, they flit through the American scene,
alien to the last. What lies behind the riddle of their impassive faces? Perhaps I could find an answer. Then, too, it was
clear, even to the most unintelligent, that a change was coming over the East, though few realized how speedily. I longed
to see the old China before I made ready to welcome the new. But not the China of the coast, for there the West had
already left its stamp. So I turned to the interior, to the western provinces of Yunnan and Szechuan. Wonderful for
scenery, important in commerce and politics, still unspoiled, there I could find what I wanted.

Of course I was told not to do it, it would not be safe, but that is what one is always told. A long, solitary summer spent
a few years ago among the Himalayas of Western Tibet, in Ladakh and Baltistan, gave me heart to face such
discouragement, and I found, as I had found before, that those who knew the country best were most ready to speed
me onward. And as the following pages show, there was nothing to fear. I had no difficulties, no adventures, hardly
enough to make the tale interesting.

It is true, I had some special advantages. I was an American and a woman, and no longer young. Chinese respect for
grey hair is a very real thing; a woman is not feared as a man may be, and hostility is often nothing more than fear; and
even in remote Szechuan I met men who knew that the American Government had returned the Boxer indemnity, and
who looked kindly upon me for that reason. If the word of certain foreigners is to be trusted, I gained in not knowing

[vii]

[viii]

[ix]

the language; the people would not take advantage of my helplessness. That seems rather incredible; if it is true, the
whole Western world has something to learn of China.

But I could not have done what I did without the wise and generous aid of many whom I met along the way, Europeans
and Chinese, officials, merchants, and above all missionaries, everywhere the pioneers. To them all I tender here my
grateful thanks. And to the representatives of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank wherever I met them, and also to
those of the Russo-Asiatic Bank I would express my gratitude for many courtesies shown me.

As I look back I know it was worth while, all of it. Half a dozen months count for little toward the real understanding of
a strange civilization, but it is something to have seen a great people in its home, to have watched it at work and at play,
for you have been forced once again to realize that although "East is East and West is West," the thing that most matters
is the nature of the man, and that everywhere human nature is much the same.

The
Orchard,
Wellesley,
Massachusetts,
November,
1912.

CONTENTS

I. Across Tonking
3

II. Days in Yunnan-Fu
24

III. Across Yunnan
41

IV. The Chien-ch'ang
71

V. On the Mandarin Road
101

VI. Tachienlu
123

VII. The Lesser Trail
139

VIII. Across Chengtu Plain
161

IX. Omei Shan, the Sacred
180

X. Down the Yangtse
202

XI. From the Great River to the

Great Wall
221

XII. The Mongolian Grassland
236

XIII. Across the Desert of Gobi
256

XIV. Urga, the Sacred City
276

XV. North to the Siberian Railway
289

XVI. A Few First Impressions of

China
308

Index
323

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Little "Fu t'ou" (Caravan Headman) (p. 6)
Frontispiece

Map of Chinese Empire
3

[x]

[xi]

[xii]

[xiii]

A Yunnan Valley
6

Outside the Walls of Yunnan-Fu
6

My Sedan Chair and Bearers
32

A Memorial Arch near Yunnan-Fu
32

Map of West China
42

On a Yunnan Road: My Caravan—The Military
Escort
44

Wu-Ting-Chou: Temple Gateway—Temple Corner
60

Lolo Girls
80

"Tame, Wild" Lolos
80

A Memorial Arch. Szechuan
92

Fortified Village in the Chien-ch'ang Valley
92

"Mercury," my Fleet Coolie
106

Carrier Coolies
106

A Group of Szechuan Farmhouses
114

A View of Tachienlu
124

Tibetans
124

Lama and Dog at Tachienlu
134

The Gate of Tibet
134

A Wayside Rest-House
146

A Fortified Post
146

A Roadside Tea-House
152

Tea Coolie crossing a Suspension Bridge
152

A Farmhouse in Chengtu Plain
162

Memorial Arch to a "Virtuous Widow," Chengtu Plain
168

The "Rejection of the Body" (Cliff a mile high), Mount
Omei, West Szechuan
196

In the Yangtse Gorges
218

Tartar Wall, Peking
230

Caravan outside the Tartar Wall
230

A Poor Mongol Family and Yurt
248

Jack and his Lama Friend
258

My Caravan across Mongolia
258

Horsemen of the Desert, North Mongolia
268

A Lama bound for Urga
278

A Mongol Belle, Urga
278

My Mongol Hostess
284

The Mongol House where I stayed in Urga
284

Lama and his "Wife"
298

My thanks are due to Robert J. Davidson, Esq., of Chengtu, Szechuan, for kind permission to use the photograph of
the Yangtse Gorges. Also to Messrs. Underwood & Underwood, of New York, for the photographs of the Tartar
Wall, Peking. With these exceptions the illustrations are from photographs made by myself on the journey. I should like
to express here my appreciation of the care and skill shown by the staff of the Kodak Agency, Regent Street, West, in
handling films often used under very unfavourable conditions.

E. K.

[xiv]

SUGGESTIONS FOR PRONOUNCING

CHINESE NAMES IN THE TEXT

In general vowels are pronounced as in Italian.

a preceded by w and followed by ng is like a in fall.

ü like the French u.

ai like i in mine.

ao like ou in proud.

ei like ey in they.

ie like e-e in re-enter.

ui with vowels distinct.

ou with vowels distinct and stress on o.

Of the consonants, ch, k, p, t, ts are softer than in English, approaching respectively j, g, b, d, dz.

hs is approximately sh (hsien = she-en).

MONEY, WEIGHTS AND MEASURES

Tael, roughly two-thirds of a dollar gold.

Dollar or dollar Mex., about fifty cents gold.

Cash, about the twentieth part of a cent gold.

Li, a scant third of an English mile.

Catty, about one and one-third pounds avoirdupois.

A WAYFARER IN CHINA

For the wander-thirst is on me

And my soul is in Cathay.

[xv]

T

CHINESE EMPIRE MAP

A WAYFARER IN CHINA

CHAPTER I

ACROSS TONKING

HREE years ago West China seemed at the back of beyond. To make your way in you had either to traverse the
length of Upper Burma and then cross the great rivers and ranges of western Yunnan, a weary month-long

journey, or else spend tedious weeks ascending the Yangtse, the monotony of the trip tempered by occasional
shipwreck. To-day, thanks to French enterprise, you can slip in between mountain and river and find yourself at
Yunnan-fu, the provincial capital, after a railway journey of only three days and a half from Haiphong, the port of
Tonking.

When first planning a visit to West China, I set my heart on going in from the west, for I had long wished to see the
wild, picturesque country that lies between the Burmese frontier and the Yangtse. Years before, I had looked across
the border and promised myself that some day I would find out what lay on the other side. But when the time came the
difficulty of securing a Chinese interpreter in Burma forced me to go to Hong Kong, and once there, lack of time made
it necessary that I should choose the shortest route into West China, and that was by way of Haiphong and the Red
River railway. After all, there were compensations. Even a fleeting vision from the windows of a railway carriage gives
some idea of what the French are doing in their great Eastern colony. Moreover, there could be no better starting-point
for such a trip as I had before me than the free port of Hong Kong, and the comfort of arranging an outfit in a place
where East and West meet untrammelled by custom-houses is not to be despised. As a rule it is a mistake to bring an
elaborate outfit from home. Generally each place has worked out just the devices that best serve its particular needs,
and much of Western travelling equipment does not fit in with the conditions of Eastern life. Shoes and saddles the
traveller from the West wisely brings with him, and of course all scientific apparatus is best provided in Europe. But in
the main I found all that I needed, whether of Eastern or Western manufacture, in Hong Kong, and at surprisingly low
prices. Interpreter and cook I had secured from Shanghai. The former, a Kiangsi man, was the product of mission
schools and a year in an American Western college. He spoke English fairly well, and was sufficiently at home in the
various forms of Mandarin to get on in Yunnan and Szechuan. The cook had come down the "Great River" from
Chung-king with an English family returning home, and was glad to work his way back, even though by a roundabout
route. Although he spoke no English, he understood European ways and was quick to comprehend my wishes. And he
proved a faithful, hard-working fellow, and a very passable cook.

[3]

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By the end of March my preparations were complete. The boat for Haiphong was to leave at nine o'clock on the
morning of the 29th, and the evening before two sampans took me and my kit, together with the interpreter and the
cook, out to where she lay at her moorings. My belongings looked rather formidable as they lay heaped up on the deck
of the Sikiang, of the Est Asiatique Français line, but, after all, there was only a moderate supply of stores, such as tea,
jam, biscuit, sugar, cereals, tinned meats and tinned milk, together with a few enamelled iron dishes and the cook's
stew-pans, all packed in wooden boxes. The bedding-roll and clothing were put in camp-bags of waterproof canvas,
while the necessary maps and cameras and films were carried in suit-cases for safe-keeping. An English cross saddle
brought from Shanghai proved more satisfactory for the small Yunnan ponies than would have been the Mexican saddle
which I had tried in vain to secure. Acting on a timely word of warning I bought in Hong Kong a most comfortable
sedan-chair, a well-made bamboo affair fitted with a top and adjustable screens and curtains to keep out either rain or
sun. I had been told that I should have no use for a tent, but that a camp-bed was a necessity, and so it proved. The
bed I took with me was of American manufacture; compact and light, and fitted with a mosquito frame, it served me
throughout all my journeyings and was finally left in Urga in North Mongolia, on the chance that it might serve another
traveller a good turn. An important part of my outfit, a small Irish terrier, arrived from Japan the next morning, when I
had about given him up. He was dropped into my waiting sampan as his ship, homeward bound to Calcutta from Kobe,
came into her moorings, and we climbed up the side of the Sikiang not fifteen minutes before she was off. All's well that
ends well. We were safe on board, and I had secured a gay little comrade in my solitary journeying, while before Jack
lay a glorious run of two thousand odd miles.

The mail boat to Haiphong, due to make the trip in fifty-three hours, had once been a royal Portuguese yacht, but the
only remaining traces of her former glory were the royal monogram, "M.R.P.," conspicuous in glass and woodwork,
and her long, graceful lines, charming to look at, but not well fitted to contend with the cross-currents of the China Sea.
As the only lady passenger I had very comfortable quarters, and the kindest attention from French officers and
Annamese stewards. The second afternoon there came a welcome diversion when the boat put into Kwang-chou-wan,
two hundred miles southwest of Hong Kong, to visit the new free port of Fort Bayard, the commercial and military
station which the French are creating in the cession they secured from China in 1898, and which, if all goes well, is
some day to rival Hong Kong. The Bay of Kwang-chou is very fine, affording a safe harbour to the two or three ships
that were riding at anchor, or to two or three navies if need came, but Fort Bayard displays as yet few signs of the
prophesied greatness. To while away the hours of waiting I went on shore and wandered about the empty, grass-grown
roads of the tiny settlement. To the right as one walked up from the beach stretched a long line of substantial-looking
barracks, and many of the houses were of European appearance, attractively set in large gardens. Above the whole
towered a rather pretentious two-spired church. The one native and business street running parallel with the beach
showed little life; people did not wake up even at the coming of the fortnightly mail from Hong Kong, and the native
population seemed no more than sufficient to serve the needs of the foreign element.

[6]

A YUNNAN VALLEY

A YUNNAN VALLEY
OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF YUNNAN-FU

OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF YUNNAN-FU

We were joined here by two or three French officials attended by an escort of Annamese policemen. These latter had a
decidedly ladylike, genteel air with their hair smoothly brushed and twisted in a low knot at the back of the neck, the

[7]

whole bound round with a black kerchief laid in neat folds. Their uniform was of dark blue woollen set off by putties of
a lighter blue, and their appearance was decidedly shipshape. I talked with one of the Frenchmen returning from an
official visit to Fort Bayard. He seemed to have little faith in the new settlement, declaring the Government had poured
in money like water, and with no adequate return.

It is more than a century since France began to interest herself in this part of the world, dreaming dreams of an Eastern
empire to offset the one she had just lost in America. Then came the French Revolution, and the dream went the way of
many more substantial things, and it was not until the days of the Second Empire that Napoleon III, looking east and
west, again took up the question. Little by little the French strengthened their hold upon the Indo-China peninsula, and
the final contest came in the eighties, a part of the universal game of grab then going on in Africa and Asia. Although
China gave up her claim to the territory a quarter of a century ago, it took many years longer to pacify the country, and
there is still something to be done. The cost in men and money has been very great, and at one time the whole policy of
colonial expansion became so unpopular that it spelled political ruin to the man most identified with it, Jules Ferry,
"l'homme de Tonking."

The real history of Tonking dates from the administration of M. Doumer, Governor-General of Indo-China from 1897
to 1902. During these five years the Parisian printer, turned Radical politician and administrator, showed what one able
and determined man could do. When he arrived in the East, piracy and brigandage were rife, there was an annual deficit
of some three million francs, and the feeble administration had done nothing to develop the possibilities of the country.
When he left, the colony was upon its feet, lawlessness had been suppressed, the administration reformed, and the
deficit turned into a substantial surplus. He had built towns and telegraphs, encouraged the native industries of rice
planting and silk culture, and by offering special inducements to French enterprise had developed tea, coffee, and
rubber growing.

Nor did the energetic imperialist stop here. Believing that "a nation to be great should be always striving to be greater,"
he began to develop a vigorous forward policy which seemed to have as its goal nothing less than the control of Yunnan
and Southeast China. Colonial expansion was necessary to the continued existence of France, he declared. In his last
report, looking back to the achievements of a past generation, he concluded, "We are the same men, but we no longer
believe in ourselves. We act as if we were a vanquished people, and in any case we appear so to the world. This is the
result of our policy of effacement for which must be substituted at all costs a policy of action which will permit us to hold
our rank."

It is true the forward policy did not originate with M. Doumer, for the value of Tonking as the key to China had been
recognized by French statesmen before ever he put foot in the colony, but it was his task to make that policy something
more than a pious aspiration. Not only did he set about making the French possessions the needed commercial and
industrial base for such an undertaking, but he also initiated the next move in the game, the development of railway
systems which would bring French traders, and if need be French soldiers, into the heart of the coveted territory. He
worked out all the plans, urged them upon the Government, and did more than any other man to secure the necessary
support of the French financiers; to-day railways linked up with Hanoi and Haiphong have crossed the Chinese frontier
at two points, Dong Dang and Ho-k'ou.

The colony, to call it by its correct name, of Kwang-chou held an important place in M. Doumer's scheme, and he
predicted for it a "brilliant future as a port of commerce." Like the rest of his party he regretted the mistaken moderation
of the Government in not acquiring at the same time a lease of the island of Hainan. Something is being done now to
repair this unfortunate error by industriously developing French hold upon that territory, and the big consulate and the
French post-office and hospital at Hoi-hou, the chief port, are significant of future hopes, even if not justified by present
conditions.

The following noon, after we left Kwang-chou, we were approaching Haiphong through muddy red channels between
the low-lying meadow lands which here border the river Cua-Cam, on the right bank of which lies the chief commercial
centre of Tonking. But its days as a shipping port are said to be numbered, because of the difficult approach. Much
money has been spent in efforts to improve the waterway, but with no satisfactory results, and now it is proposed to
create a new port in the beautiful Baie d'Along, a little farther east. There was some doubt in my mind as to the
reception awaiting us. We had been told that the customs inspection was severe, and we had many packages; no
Chinese would be admitted without passports, and I had neglected to provide any for my men; there was a strict
muzzling law on, and Jack had not even a collar. But the graceful courtesy of the French officials smoothed away every
difficulty. We were bowed out of the custom-house with our packages unopened. At the police headquarters, where I
at once reported myself with my Chinese men, we were met by one of my fellow passengers from Kwang-chou who
had hurried ahead to explain the situation, and thanks to his efforts the lack of passports was kindly overlooked. As for
Jack, he was quickly furnished with all the equipment of the civilized dog—muzzle, collar, chain—at one of the large
outfitting-shops, of which there seemed quite enough for the needs of the place.

Haiphong is an attractive town of some twenty thousand inhabitants, of whom perhaps one thousand are Europeans. It
is planned with an eye to the future, like all French colonial centres, with broad streets and imposing public buildings.
But a deep calm brooded over everything; there was no bustle in the thoroughfares, and the shops seemed unvisited,
nor did their proprietors show interest in attracting custom. In one of the largest I offered a piastre, fifty cents gold, in
payment for a few picture post-cards, but they could not change the coin, and seemed disinclined to make the effort to
do it, so I went without my cards. The Annamese, who form the bulk of the population, are attractive in appearance,

[8]

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[10]

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finer in feature and gentler in manner than the Chinese. Save for a serious cast of face, they are much like the Burmese.
Their dress is quieter in tone than that of either their Burmese cousins or their Chinese neighbours, and is severely
utilitarian in cut, differing little for men or women. The working dress of Haiphong was full, long, square-cut trousers
over which fell a sort of prolonged shirt slashed to the waist. When at work the front panel was tucked up out of the
way. All alike wore huge straw hats tied under the chin.

But I saw little of Haiphong, as I left the same evening, and even less of Hanoi, the capital, where we arrived at half-
past ten, starting off again before eight o'clock the next morning. I was sorry not to see more of the latter place, for it is
one of the finest cities in the Far East. But I carried away a vision of a good hotel, an imposing capitol, and a pretentious
station, all set on wide streets lined with European-looking houses surrounded by real green grass lawns. A twenty-
minute run in a rickshaw soon after dawn showed fine chaussées leading out into the country and filled, even at this early
hour, with crowds of country-folk bringing their produce to market. I believe there are over one hundred miles of
metalled roads in the capital and the suburbs, all due to untiring M. Doumer. But his most enduring monument in Hanoi
is the fine exposition buildings. When he went home to raise a second loan of two hundred million francs for the
development of the colony, the men to whom he appealed naturally asked what were the resources of the country. His
convincing reply was the famous exposition of 1902.

There is one through train daily each way between Haiphong and Yunnan-fu. The distance is about six hundred miles,
and it took three days and an evening to make the trip. There is no traffic by night, and this seems to be the rule on
these adventurous railways, for I met the same thing on the Anatolian and Bagdad lines between Constantinople and
Eregli. The corridor trains are equipped with four classes. The first was inferior to the same class on Continental lines,
but that seemed to matter little, for it was usually empty. As a gay young Englishman in Yunnan-fu remarked, no one
went first-class unless he was travelling at some one's else expense. The second and third class were very good of their
kind, and the fourth was far and away the most comfortable arrangement of the sort I had ever seen, with benches
along the sides and large unglazed window openings. Most of the passengers and all the jollity went in this class.
Everywhere there were other than human travellers; birds, dogs, goats, and pigs were given room, always on condition
of having a ticket. I paid four dollars gold for my dog's ticket from Haiphong to Yunnan-fu, but having paid, Jack's right
in the carriage was as unquestioned as mine, and I found this true in all my railway travel in China.

The Tonking-Yunnan railway is a remarkable undertaking, and shows the seriousness with which the French are
attacking the problems of Far Eastern colonization. The lower half of the line, which here follows up the Red River
valley, presented few serious engineering difficulties, although calling for at least one hundred and seventy-five bridges
on the section south of Lao-kai, but it was almost impossible to secure labourers for the construction work. Annamese
refused to lend a hand, and the Chinese died like flies from the malarial conditions. For a time work was at a standstill,
and in the end it had to be suspended during the summer months. The upper part, on the other hand, especially that
section which runs through the Namti valley, tested to the utmost the skill of the French engineers. And the cost was
correspondingly great. Even as it is, much of the embanking seems to be of a rather slight character, and quite unfit to
stand the tremendous tropical downpours of the early summer months. After leaving China I learned that I had passed
over the line just in time, for the rains set in very early in the summer of 1911, and for weeks traffic was fearfully
interrupted by landslips and broken bridges.

Whether the line will prove a financial success depends on some things not wholly under control. The present customs
regulations certainly tend to check the development of trade in Tonking, and the transportation rates are perhaps more
than traffic can bear. The French, however, can change their policy in these respects if they think best. But the
proposed construction by the Chinese Government of a railway connecting Yunnan-fu and the West River valley would
cut the ground out from under their feet. For the moment, the Revolution has stopped the enterprise, but it is certain to
be taken up again, as there are no insuperable engineering obstacles in the way, and every economic and political
reason for giving Yunnan an outlet to the sea through Chinese territory.

On leaving Hanoi in the early morning light we struck across a wide fertile plain, beautifully cultivated; fields of rice
alternating with maize stretched away to a wall of feathery bamboo broken by stately palms and glossy mangoes. After
a little the country became more broken, rolling near by, mountainous in the distance. The vegetation, dense and
tropical, hemmed in the line on both sides, but here and there charming trails led away through the jungle to villages on
higher land; a delightful region to pass through, perhaps to live in if one were a duck, but for human beings the steamy
heat must be very depressing. At Yun Bay the valley narrowed, and we drew nearer the mountains, but there was no
change in the atmosphere, and had not the sky been cloudy, we should have suffered greatly from the heat.

My fellow travellers were chiefly officials of the civil administration or connected with the railway, who chatted or slept
or quietly drank away the weary hours; for them there was no novelty in the trip to dull the feeling of discomfort. At one
small station a man who might have been a planter got in, followed by an attractive-looking Annamese woman carrying
a little child. She cried bitterly as she waved good-bye to a group of natives on the station platform. The man seemed
well known on the line, and was soon the centre of a group of his fellows who paid no attention to the woman. After a
while the trio went to sleep, the man on the carriage bench, the woman and child on the floor. She was what is
euphemistically called a "cook" in Tonking; just another name for an arrangement so often resulting from the lonely life of
Europeans among a slack-fibred dependent alien population. It is the same thing that confronts the stray visitor to the
isolated tea plantations of the Assam hills, where young English lads are set down by themselves, perhaps a day's
journey from the next European. What wonder that they find it difficult to hold fast to the standards and principles of the

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[15]

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home that seems so far away, or that if they once ignore their inherited traditions, no matter in how slight a thing, there
seems to be no natural stopping-place short of the abyss. As once said to me an aged American missionary, who
perhaps had never worn an evening coat a dozen times in his life, "A nice young fellow, clean in body and soul, comes
out from England, and finds himself shut up for the year on one of these plantations, no one of his kind within reach. He
means well, but the test is too great. First he stops dressing for dinner. What's the use? Then he gets careless about his
manners. And the end of it all is black-and-tan babies in the compound." Here in Tonking the woman is perhaps as well
off as in her native hut until the planter goes home or brings out a European wife, but in some way or another there is
usually an untoward ending. As for the children, they go to swell the class that is neither here nor there, and their lot is
probably happier than that of the unfortunate Eurasians of India, since race prejudice is far less strong among the French
than with the Anglo-Saxon.

At Lao-kai on the Tonking frontier I stopped over for a day's rest, having learned that it boasted a comfortable
European inn. The little town is built on the opposite high banks of the Red River near its junction with the Namti. Just
across the latter stream lie China and the Chinese town of Ho-k'ou. There is a distinct European aspect to Lao-kai, and
as a frontier post it has a good-sized garrison of the Annamese Tirailleurs and the French Foreign Legion. The latter did
not look as black as they are painted, and it was hard to realize that behind their friendly, courteous bearing were ruined
careers; but the contrast of their sturdy forms and weather-beaten faces with the slender figures and delicate features of
the Tirailleurs was very striking. I did not wonder that the French soldiers have dubbed their Annamese companions-in-
arms the "Young Ladies." The inn, which was most efficiently managed by two Frenchwomen, served as a sort of club
for the Europeans of both Lao-kai and Ho-k'ou, and incidentally also for innumerable dogs and cats. At dinner each
person was the centre of an expectant group of the four-footed habitués of the inn, and no one seemed to object. Just
another instance of the liking of the most civilized peoples of the West and the East, English, French, and Chinese, for
pet animals.

A small church on the right bank of the river showed white among the bamboos, and in the early evening the bells rang
with a homelike sound. Crossing by the ferry I found the place empty save for two Annamese soldiers kneeling quietly
and reverently. In going back and forth on the ferry-boat as I did several times, I had a chance to observe the people.
As in the case of the Burmans the difference between men and women is not marked; indeed, among the younger ones
it is often difficult to tell them apart. The great palm-leaf hat generally worn took me back to hot Sunday afternoons in
an old church in the Berkshire hills of Massachusetts, when my restless little mind busied itself with wondering what
palm leaves looked like when they were not fans. I now had a chance to see, for I was in the land of palms, and the
church-going fans of my childhood seemed to have transformed themselves into a universal headgear. In shape the
Annamese hat resembles a tea-tray with edges three inches deep, and of the size of a bicycle wheel. In addition to the
band passing under the chin a small crown fits the head snugly, and helps to keep the huge thing in place. Primarily it is a
head-covering, a protection against sun or rain, but incidentally it serves as a windbreak, a basket-cover, a tray, or a
cradle. Often French soldiers crossed with me, and I noticed that they usually spoke Annamese fluently, unlike Tommy
Atkins in India, who rarely knows a word of the vernacular; also they seemed to be on a friendly, not to say familiar
footing with the natives.

After a comfortable week-end's rest, I left Lao-kai in the early morning, helped on my journey by those courtesies that
so often in strange lands convince one that "less than kin more than kind" quite understates the truth. An Italian on his
way down the river wired the landlord of the best inn in Yunnan-fu of my coming, that I might be properly met. That I
had already done so myself did not at all take from his kind thoughtfulness. Still another Italian of the Chinese customs
service joined me as we left Lao-kai, having come over from Ho-k'ou to escort me across the frontier, that I might have
no bother with my luggage. Yet another of these kind strangers wired ahead to warn the solitary American on the line of
my coming, thus giving the two compatriots a chance to exchange a few words at the station as the train went through.

On leaving Lao-kai our way led up the valley of the Namti, a small mountain river coming in from the east. The scenery
was now much wilder, and as we rose to higher levels the vegetation changed, the pathless jungle which comes up to
the very doors of Lao-kai gave way to sparsely covered grass slopes, and they in turn to barren, rocky walls. It was
here that the French engineers encountered their most difficult problems. We wound up the narrow valley in splendid
loops and curves, turning upon our tracks, running through numerous tunnels, and at one time crossing a chasm so
narrow and with sides so steep and precipitous that it was found necessary to build the bridge in two parts, each against
the face of the cliff, and then gradually lower them until they met above the river, three hundred and fifty feet below.
Finally by an almost intolerable gradient we topped the divide and found ourselves overlooking a wonderful, well-
watered plain five thousand feet above the sea, and cultivated as far as the vision could carry with the care and
precision of a market-garden.

That night I spent at A-Mi-chou in a semi-Chinese inn. The cooking was good, and, thanks to the thoughtfulness of a
railway official who wired ahead, I had one of the two good rooms of the house, the others being given over to rats.
This was truly China, and the European railway with its Frenchified trains and stations seemed indeed an invasion, a
world apart. The French officials apparently shared this feeling, and had a nice way of regarding themselves as your
hosts and protectors.

All the next day we were crossing the great plateau of Yunnan, now climbing a pass in the mountain-ranges that tower
above the level, now making our way up a narrow rocky valley, the gray limestone cliffs gay with bright blue flowers
and pink blossoming shrubs. Just what they were I could not tell as the train rolled by. Mostly the road led through long

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stretches of tiny garden-like fields, broken here and there by prosperous looking villages half concealed in bamboo
groves. The scenery was very fine and varied; above, the rocky hills, below, the green valleys. The mingling, too, of
tropical and temperate vegetation was striking. We were in latitude 24° and 25°, about the same as Calcutta, but at an
elevation of nearly seven thousand feet, and the combination seemed to work confusion among the growing things, for
rice and wheat were found not far apart, and here at last Heine's palm and pine had come together.

Late on the second afternoon after leaving Lao-kai we were approaching Yunnan-fu. Seen across the plain, the capital
of the province looked very imposing as it lay stretched along a low ridge running east and west. Rice-fields
interspersed with ruins, sad reminders of the terrible Mohammedan rebellion of a generation ago, crowd up to the very
walls on the near side of the town. Outside the South Gate is the station, and not far distant the Chinese house which an
enterprising French couple had turned into a very comfortable inn, where I stayed the three days needed for arranging
my caravan and seeing the sights of the place.

CHAPTER II

DAYS IN YUNNAN-FU

HE situation of Yunnan's capital is extraordinarily picturesque. It stands in a wide plain, its northern wall running
along a low rocky ridge from which there is a charming view over city and lake to the great mountains that skirt the

plain on all sides. Lying at an elevation of nearly seven thousand feet, it is blessed with a white man's climate. Eighty-five
degrees in the shade marks the highest summer temperature, and the winters are just pleasantly bracing. Europeans who
have experienced the biting winds of Peking, the damp heat of Canton, or the gray skies of Chengtu find in the bright
days and cool breezes of Yunnan some mitigation of their exile to this remote corner of the empire. The city itself is not
very attractive in spite of its many trees, for it seems a network of narrow lanes, only broken here and there by a temple
enclosure or a stretch of waste land, the whole shut in by sound thirty-foot high walls; nor are there any sights of special
interest, with the exception of a rather fine Confucian temple. But the country roundabout affords many charming
excursions. The waters of the lake, some twenty-three miles in length, once perhaps washed the west wall, but it is
gradually silting up, and to-day it is five miles away and is reached by heavy sampans which ply the narrow canals that
intersect the rice-fields. Farm buildings, tea-houses, and temples buried in groves of bamboo are dotted over the plain,
which is crossed at intervals by high, stone-paved dykes lined with trees. The rich cultivation of the lowland is in sharp
contrast with the surrounding hills, bare and barren save where the presence of a temple has preserved the forest.

Yunnan-fu, with a population of some eighty thousand, seems a fairly prosperous town. Copper is found on the
neighbouring hills, and the metal-work of the place is famous, although by law all copper mined must be sent to Peking.
But the importance of the city depends mainly upon its trade. It is the centre of a large though rather scantily populated
district abounding in the great staples, rice, beans, and millet, as well as in fruit and vegetables. Formerly Yunnan stood
in the forefront of opium-producing provinces, but when I was there not a poppy-field was to be seen. The last viceroy,
the much respected Hsi Liang, the one Mongol in the Chinese service, himself not an opium smoker, had shown great
determination in carrying out the imperial edicts against its use or production, and rather unwillingly Yunnan was brought
into line with the new order. Under his successor, Li Ching Hsi, a man known to be given over to the use of the drug,
unwilling converts hoped for better days, only to be disappointed. After a more or less serious effort to reform, he
announced that he was too old to change, but the province had a long life before it, and must obey the law. So he made
amends for his own short-comings by enforcing the restrictions almost as vigorously as his predecessor had done. What
was true at that time in Yunnan was also the case in Szechuan. Although always on the watch for the poppy, nowhere
did I see it cultivated. Probably in remote valleys off the regular trails a stray field might now and then have been found,
innocently or intentionally overlooked by the inspector, but in the main poppy-growing had really been stamped out;
and this where a generation ago that careful observer, Baber, estimated that poppy-fields constituted a third of the
whole cultivation. Credit where credit is due. Manchu rule may have been weak and corrupt, but at least in respect of
one great popular vice it achieved more than any Western power ever thought of attempting. Certainly not last among
the causes for its overthrow was the discontent aroused by its anti-opium policy. And now it is reported that
individualism run mad among the revolutionary leaders has led to a slackening in the enforcement of the rules, and the
revival of poppy cultivation.

For half a century Yunnan has known little peace. Twenty years long the terrible Mohammedan rebellion raged, and the
unhappy province was swept from end to end with fire and sword. Marks of the devastation of that time are
everywhere visible. Hardly had it been put down when the war with the French in the eighties again involved Yunnan.
Later came the outbreak of the tribesmen, while the Boxer movement of the north found a vigorous response here.
Bloodshed and disorder have given the country a set-back from which it is only beginning to recover.

But the coming of the railway has brought fresh life to Yunnan, and the prospects for the future economic development
are very promising. In the capital there were many signs of a new day. The Reform movement had taken good hold in
this remote corner of the empire. A hospital with eight wards and under Chinese control was doing fine work. Schools

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were flourishing, and there was even a university of sorts. The newly organized police force pervaded the whole place
and was reputed quite efficient. But it was the new military spirit that most forced itself upon you; you simply could not
get away from it. Bugle practice made hideous night and day. Everywhere you met marching soldiers, and the great drill
ground was the most active place in the town. Dread of the foreigner underlies much of the present activity and
openmindedness towards Western ideas. The willingness to adopt our ways does not necessarily mean that the Chinese
prefer them to their own, but simply that they realize if they would meet us on equal terms they must meet us with our
own weapons. Writing of the Boxer rising, Sir Charles Eliot summed up the Chinese position in a sentence, "Let us learn
their tricks before we make an end of them." Now it might read, "Let us learn their tricks before they make an end of
us." The drilling soldiers, the modern barracks, the elaborately equipped arsenals, as well as the military schools found
all over China to-day, show which one of the Western "tricks" seems to the man of the Middle Kingdom of most
immediate value. At the military school of Yunnan-fu they have a graphic way of enforcing the lesson to be learned. A
short time ago the students gave a public dramatic performance, a sort of thing for which the Chinese have decided
talent. One of the scenes showed an Englishman kicking his Hindu servant, while another represented an Annamese
undergoing a beating at the hands of a Frenchman. The teaching was plain. "This will be your fate unless you are strong
to resist." The English and French consuls protested formally, and the proper apologies were made, but no one believes
that the lesson was forgotten.

It is not to be wondered at that the people of Yunnan are alive to the danger of foreign interference, for they see the
British on the west and much more the French on the south, peering with greedy eyes and clutching hands over the
border. In the last fifteen years commissions of the one and the other have scoured the province with scarcely so much
as "by your leave," investigating the mineral resources and planning out practicable railway routes. Within the capital city
the French seem entrenched. A French post-office, a French hospital, French shops, hotels, missions, and above all the
huge consulate, are there like advance posts of a greater invasion. There is an ominous look to these pretentious
establishments holding strategic points in this or that debatable territory. Take the French consulates, here in Yunnan-fu
and in Hoi-hou, or the Russian in Urga, the North Mongolian capital, they have more the aspect of a fortified outpost in
a hostile country than the residence of the peaceful representative of a friendly power.

And Yunnan is beginning to move. For some time past the Government has been considering seriously the project of a
railway across the province on the east to the Si Kiang and Canton, and just before I arrived in Yunnan-fu two
engineers (significantly enough Americans) started northwards to make the preliminary surveys for a line connecting the
capital with the Yangtse. If these two schemes can be carried through under Chinese control, good-by to the hopes of
the French. Just at the time that I was in Yunnan there was much excitement over the Pien-ma matter, a boundary
question between the province and Burma. A boycott of British goods had been started which would have been more
effective if there had been more goods to boycott, but it indicated the feeling of the people, and the viceroy, Li Ching
Hsi, was winning golden opinions for the stand he took in the matter, which, however, did not save him from
ignominious deportation by the Revolutionary party only a few months later.

But whatever the feeling towards foreigners in the mass, the individual foreigner seemed to meet with no unfriendliness
on the part of the people in Yunnan-fu, and apparently official relations were on a cordial footing. I found the Bureau of
Foreign Affairs ready to do all it could to smooth my way across Yunnan, but perhaps that was due in part to the fact
that the chief of the bureau had been for several years consul in New York. By arrangement I called one afternoon, in
company with a missionary lady, upon his wife. Threading our way through narrow, winding streets, our chairs turned in
at an inconspicuous doorway and we found ourselves in a large compound, containing not so much one house as a
number of houses set down among gay gardens. The building in which we were received consisted apparently of two
rooms, an anteroom and a reception room. The latter was furnished in the usual style (invariable, it seems to me, from
country inn to prince's palace), heavy high chairs, heavy high tables ranged against walls decorated with kakemonos and
gay mottoes; only in the centre of the room was a large table covered with a cloth of European manufacture on which
were set out dishes of English biscuits and sweets. Our hostess, dressed in a modified Chinese costume, received us
with graceful dignity. Her fine-featured face bore a marked likeness to many that one meets on the street or in the
church of an old New England town, and its rather anxious expression somewhat emphasized the resemblance. She
spoke with much pleasure of the years she had spent in America, and her daughter, who had been educated in a well-
known private school in New York, looked back longingly to those days, complaining that there was no society in
Yunnan-fu; but she brightened up at a reference to the arrival of a new and young English vice-consul, hoping that it
might mean some tennis. It was an unexpected touch of New China in this out-of-the-way corner. Before we left, two
younger children were brought in, both born in America, and one bearing the name "Daisy," the other "Lincoln," but
already they were forgetting their English.

During my three days in Yunnan-fu,[1] through the kindness of the British Consul-General I was given a chance to make
one or two excursions into the surrounding country. An especially charming trip that we took one afternoon was to Chin
Tien, or "Golden Temple," a celebrated copper temple about five miles out. Near the town our chairs were borne along
the narrow earth balk between the bean- and rice-fields, but farther on our way led over the top of a high dyke lined
with trees. We mounted by a charming winding road to the temple, set high on the hillside among its own groves of
conifers, the courts of the temple, which rose one behind the other, being connected by long, steep flights of steps. In
the upper court we were met by the friendly priests, the quiet dignity of their reception being somewhat disturbed by the
din of the temple dogs, goaded almost to madness at Jack's imperturbable bearing. Chinese temples rarely offer much
of interest; the construction is usually simple and their treasures are few, but everything is freely shown, there are no

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dark corners, and the spacious courts gay with flowers are full of charm. The sacred images which they conta...